


Cherry

by SmutWithPlot



Category: The Breakfast Club (1985)
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Period Typical Homophobia, Underage Substance Use, basically Bender is a bad example, but that's kind of the point, toxic masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 16:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14169258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutWithPlot/pseuds/SmutWithPlot
Summary: "Why would you do that?" "Because I knew you wouldn't."...But you don't even like me.It was just a token. It didn't mean anything. It's not a big deal... And yet, John Bender finds himself at school, hunting the halls for Claire Standish come Monday morning. And he has yet to take the damn stud off.





	Cherry

**Author's Note:**

> I am pretty sure you guys are NOT surprised that Bender is my spirit animal in the Breakfast Club group. Everyone has that character they click with, and I'm definitely the Bender punk. He's smarter and more calculating than he looks, charming and cruel, witty and yet unkind, an abusive asshole and still painfully vulnerable. I think Bender was what 15, 16-year-old Jesse McCree looked like, back when he went to school here and there, before he started making his pro runs with Deadlock. This is a shit-kicker and a shit-talker, and yet so much self-doubt and irony in the difference between his public persona... And those things he wrestles with in private. Yes, I'm always switchy and feral, this isn't going to change. I hope I got the 'stop staring at me' aspect of Bender's intensity across the way I wanted to. I feel there's a good amount of 'unbalanced' in here to stay true to the character. And of course, Claire Standish is no pushover herself. In fact... In finishing this today, I realize that for Jesse being Bender, my Hanzo definitely feels like a Claire. Except that he would kill people before he admitted he was a "Cherry".
> 
> Also: this was originally entitled 'Effect'. I was going to have him be a mildly creepy stalker for a little longer first, but then I came back to work on this some more and Claire was more with it than I thought she would be at first. I don't know. I'm in a weird headspace atm.

He'd had other girls before. It wasn't a big thing. A momento here and there was sporting, something to boast about, another score. Fabricated or not, a token was a token.

It wasn't a big thing.

He told himself as much when he went home Saturday afternoon, even as he quietly patted himself on the back. He even did homework, to some extent. Until his old man showed up, and he made himself scarce. Went to a friend's house, and she offered him beer, and sex, and pot, and he partook of all three.

He might have been wondering what noises Claire would make in the middle of it, but sometimes he did that. It wasn't a big thing.

Sunday afternoon, he left. Wandered the streets. Made a delivery, and picked up some cash. Smoked a little dope, make some plans for Thursday. Picked up a meal on the street, and headed home after dark.

Maybe he stopped at the front of a gated neighborhood, wondering if she lived in there. What it would be like to fuck on Egyptian cotton, eating caviar instead of McDonald's, sipping her father's bourbon or mother's imported wine instead of the Jack Daniels he was used to. But sometimes he just thought of things like that. It wasn't a big thing.

Definitely not a thing.

So maybe he didn't sleep that night, knowing it was a school night. Maybe he actually set the alarm and got up on time. Maybe he actually made himself breakfast (a sandwich from the fridge, and leftovers for a bag lunch) and headed out in a timely manner. He didn't quite make the bus, but when did he ever? It did pass him at one point, as he was on his way, and he flipped it off as was his custom, a cigarette hanging out of his lips, and a few jeers and returning fingers flashed back.

It's not like he made it there on time. Sometime after 8, in the middle of second period.

Maybe he crept through the halls, wondering what a girl like Claire would take for second period. He knew a guy who could hack the system and find out, but it was too short notice and low priority to bother.

Especially when you could just do the eyeball check yourself. Just took longer.

Bell rang, and he swam amongst the crowd between classes, disappearing in the throng, joining those headed down to the cafeteria for first lunch. He picked a post outside, close enough to the hall to see if she was coming in, twisting his lips, knowing she would pack a lunch and not be in line. No point in lurking in the cafeteria to see her getting food.

But whatever. It wasn't a big thing. He traded the sandwich for a favor, and collected chocolate milk. Three would be enough. He ripped the top off of one, tag and all, and chugged it. An impromptu game of flag football began and carried on until the bell rang: 3-7. When the losers trudged off to class, he called them pussies and faggots and ducked around the back to wait out the crowd change.

Second lunch, same story. Different mark, 3 chocolates for a decent meal, bummed a joint from a friend and partook of it. He asked about Claire, that snooty redhead, and no call of her being in second lunch. He made no mention again because it wasn't a big deal, it really wasn't. And now he was high, and he didn't really care if she came or not. It felt good, and while he tried to get a game going again, he ended up just shooting hoops by himself.

He didn't bother to hide between lunches this time. No one cared enough to check.

Third lunch, he spotted her. She dropped down the stairs, her own eyes searching for something, and as she stopped to do a full circle, she saw him.

For a moment, their eyes met, and he saw only her. The sad little quirk of her smile and she blushed, biting her lip, and slipped into the cafeteria. He watched her go, not sure what it meant, but bounced his basketball twice more, just to be sure, before he put it on his hip and followed.

He followed her on the outside, the glass separating him from the cafeteria, not caring about the crunch of whatever hash they put over the roots in the gardens. He shuffled his feet around, baring the dirt, leering into the room at everyone, not focusing on the pretty pink blouse, nor the way her pretty white teeth bit her pretty pink lips, a darker pink, a raspberry pink, something not quite rouge, but not quite pink enough to be that lip gloss girls wore to make it look like they weren't trying to be pretty.

It was almost a red. He wondered if it was the closest to red that she had, or if she had stolen it from her mother.

Her eyes kept darting to him, a forlorn puppy in the window, his face pressed to the glass, the basketball hanging off his hip. A few others here and there jeered at him, teasing if he'd gotten himself locked out, but he ignored them. He always ignored them.

Claire didn't have a packed lunch today. He watched her stand in the shortest line, the one that handed out peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cold cuts that could zip in and out, versus the longer lines that waited for hot meals, like lasagna or turkey casserole or whatever it was that they were serving today.

(It was meatloaf, actually. He wanted to tell her it wasn't half bad, actually, and pretty filling, but he was too far away for that.)

He watched her roll her eyes and tell some pretty lie -- he just knew from her nervousness that she was lying, she avoided the eye contact, and yet she had her little green dollars already ready for the lunch lady, who didn't care. She took her sandwich and her milk, and he watched her clip through the room, could almost hear the strut of her heels against the floor, and like a wolf, trailing after his prey, he followed after her.

No one was watching him. No one but her.

He met her at the door, and she looked nervous as all hell. Cherry in more ways than one.

"You lost, little girl?" he asked, his eyes already devouring her, the arm holding the ball to his hip still, as if it was there his whole life.

"No," she answered, rolling her eyes at him. But it was quiet, and she ducked her head back over her shoulder, tucking her bag a little higher, stepping out into the sun. He followed, and she pointedly moved away from the cafeteria, to a stretch of wall where there were no windows, no witnesses except for the army of silent cars that waiting anxiously for the end of the school day like all of their owners. She leaned against the wall, and he leaned his shoulder near her, watching the way her fingers trembled a little, opening up the plastic packaging.

"I left my lunch at home today," she muttered, with a shy smile, opening it. The tiniest of bites. "Silly, right?"

And then her eyes met his... And he saw that there was a similar kind of fire in them. Fear, yes. But also the thrill of it. The excitement. The _need_.

The hunger. The lust. He didn't lick his lips, but he did move the ball.

In a moment, he's sitting atop it, as if it were a throne and the abandoned parking lot where his kingdom. He adjusted so that he was balanced properly on the makeshift seat, and silently pat a hand on his knee. There's a moment where she bites her lip again, but she obeys, stepping between his open legs and perching neatly in his lap. His legs shift a little closer so that she is tucked between his knees, and his hand slides around her waist. His eyes haven't left her once, and his hand explores the small of her back, the sheer of her skirt, the satin of her blouse...

It's not as scratchy and rough as the other satin he's touched. This is the real deal. The thought excites him, and he does lick his lips, looking at the sandwich she holds before her.

"So..." It doesn't have the same bite he had on Saturday. "What are we having for lunch?"

" _I'm_  having a sandwich," she answered, just as quiet, coy. That sass slipping into her lips. "As for you... Well. You told me I was wearing it."

She takes a defiant bite, a bigger one, and there's that challenge in her eye. Expectant. Doubtless, she expected him to pin her against a wall, have his wicked way with her, and send her back with enough time to fix her makeup and eat before next bell.

Oh, she's not going to next bell. She just doesn't know it yet.

He swallows. "Do you know what that means?"

Her eyes are big as saucers, and she hesitantly shakes her head.

He smirks, his head tilting to one side. "But you've been thinking about it. Haven't you?"

There is an audible gulp as she swallows the bite. She lowers the sandwich. He wonders what her heart rate is like right now. He can practically see her pulse pounding in her neck right now. "I have."

There's a roughness, a darkness to her words. It is contagious and seeps into his eyes. At last, he leans forward, careful, hesitant...

He is a lot of talk. She meets him, turning into him, a hand going to his shoulder as she completes the circuit, kissing.

It's artless, a press of lips on lips, but his arms wrap around her, fingers sliding over that luxurious satin, warm from her body. His lips answer hers, and she carefully does the same, and he knows she's never done this before... And usually, that is annoying. But for Claire, it's a special, pathetic kind of beautiful. His hand slides up her back clawing ever so gently, investigating if she likes that kind of thing, and her back arches, pressing into it. He pulls back every so slightly, teasing the kiss deeper, and she follows the lead, and he wonders if she's stopped breathing because he's pretty sure he has. He reminds himself to do that, and sighs, a tongue reaching out to tease. She lets out this tiny squeak of a sound, and it's like a live wire, shocking him, as his grip tightens, clawing.

Another mewl. She is trembling in his arms as he teases that tongue into her lips, not forcing it, not shoving it, but _teasing_  it. Hers answers him, tapping toe to toe in this careful dance, and he's never enjoyed a virgin like this before. She's bold, learns quick, and when she wraps her lips around his tongue and _sucks_ , he lets out his own soft sound of protest.

Oh, that was not a good idea. She moves in his lap, claws on his shoulders, and before he can properly tell her why that's a bad idea, their balance is shifting as she   
leans them both back, too selfish and inexperienced to listen, and he scrambles his arms to catch himself and _fails_  as he hits the ground, _hard_ , with a grunt and a sore tailbone.

"Damn it," he grits out.

"Oh, shit! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" There's a flurry of pink as she pushes herself off of him, those hands gone so fast, and she's chasing after the ball, this ridiculous girl, and scooping it up, bringing it back to him. "I didn't realize -- I mean, I _knew_ , I saw you, but I didn't think, I..."

But her words trail off as she looks down at him, still on the ground, propped up by his elbows. And she tosses the ball away, coming down to him again. There's a soft sound of concern as her leg slides between his, _dangerously_  close to some sensitive equipment, but her hands are claws on his shoulders again, and she is _hungry_  for another kiss. His hands are back on that satin, his lips dancing with hers, and her tongue is teasing back at his, and when she tries to return the favor, he doesn't suck, he catches her with his _teeth_ and growls softly. She makes the sweetest mewling sound, her fists twisting in his shirt, and the knee that is between hers slides higher, making contact with her core. She lets out another desperate sound, her thighs _squeezing_  around him, and he _needs_  this. Greedy hands reach for her skirt, but he is careful to undo the zipper.

"No!" she whispers suddenly, a hand going back to stop him. His eyes flash open at her, a snarl on his lips, frustration flaring in his eyes. But her hand just pulls his _lower_ , under the hem, down to stockings and--

"Keep it on," she whispered. "I picked a loose one purpose."

The thought is dizzying. His eyes roll back in his head as she returns to her kisses, adding her own teeth as she _tugs_  at his lips, and he groans at her _hunger_  and need, and god _damn_. If he can train her up right, Claire might be one of the best fucks he's ever had... A cherry and she _bites_. They wrestle for dominance, rough teeth and lips and growling met with desperate little whimpers as his hands play over the sheer of her stockings, long fingers squeezing handfuls of beautiful, expensive, alabaster flesh that no one else has ever touched, and as he reaches up, she's wearing _thigh highs_ , and he barks a laugh into her mouth that startles her.

"W-what?" she asks, breathless, rising over him, a hand pressed to the grass by his head. "Y-... What?"

His fingers tease over soft cotton, and he watches her composure crumple as her hips jerk away from his touch. Her mouth parts into a beautiful O as her eyes are heavy, dark, wanting... His other hand claws at the edge of her stockings, and teasingly snaps at her garters.

"I can't believe you have garters on," he growled, a grin on his face. "Jesus, Claire. You might as well be wearing diamonds."

At that, her eyes search his, trying to figure out what he means by it... But her pink blush turns even redder as her eye focuses on something just to his right. "I mean... You're wearing mine."

...It was just a token. It didn't mean anything. It wasn't a big deal.

The lies come to him quickly, and his grin fades. It doesn't mean nothing. It is a big deal. It's more than just a token. She bites her lip, and there is something so broken and vulnerable and... _Beautiful_  there.

Claire Standish has never been touched, and yet she's given that honor to him, who has bedded and fucked many a woman without prejudice, care or affection. And yet the way she is looking at him right now... Like he is the most important thing in the world, like what she's giving him is so precious and he better not break her heart...

...He can't put that kind of thing into words. His eyes flash, and instead of saying anything, his fingers brush gently against the hot wet cotton, and the _mewl_  she makes sends a shiver down his spine.

"John..." she whispers.

It's usually Johnny. Or just Bender. Johnny-boy. Pretty thing. Pretty boy. Fuck boy, fuck toy, hey asshole, a million things he's been called, but John isn't one of them. It makes his heart twist, and when their lips meet, it's hungry, but for a reason that he had thought he'd never been able to have again. He strokes, gentle teasing at her length, loving how _hot_  and wet she is, knowing she _wants_  it, has probably been thinking about this for days, and he wonders if she was thinking of him when she touched herself this weekend. When he starts to peel the fabric from her skin, she sighs, parting from the kiss. He opens his eyes to her, and she is _wrecked_. Her eyes are black with want, lips parted and swollen, her lipstick smeared all over, and he wonders if his face looks as messy. Her face presses into his shoulder as he touches furry flesh, the quietest whimper from her, and his free hand slides over her back as he wriggles his way into her panties.

He wonders what color they are, if they're always this soft cotton. His longest finger slides along the wet slit, and she whines, grinding into him, and he presses a reassuring kiss to her hair.

"Shhhh..." It's not even really a word, and yet it comes out wavering. He's not nervous. He's _never_  nervous. And yet, this girl is throwing him for a loop, making all kinds of... Admittedly lovely noises, but not the kind he hasn't heard before, and yet she's making him _crazy_ , and the way she's moving, her knees are grinding against him and--

"John..." she breathes again, right in his ear, and he _melts_. Those soft lips kiss at his skin, there at his ear, that hot breath right there, and her _tongue_  reaches out to play with the diamond stud that he hasn't taken off since she put it there, and he groans, so quiet only she could ever hear it, as his finger slides into her, his own hips grinding against her leg. She answers in kind, brushing that leg where he needs that friction, a gasp as he ventures inside her, and he wonders if she's going to bleed, right here on the god damn lawn of the school, and yet the thought thrills him. And then this fucking _girl_  reaches down and cups his...

"Jesus, Claire," he hisses, his finger showing his frustration as he begins to pump in and out of her, needing to prepare her, wanting to stretch this out for her. And yet, he groans, grinding into her. Her lips are on his neck, kissing, and then _biting_ , and he hisses, his pace digging deep. She groans... And he is pretty sure his mind is _gone_.

"You like the pain?" she asks, so innocent, so sincere, and when her claw _squeezes_  him, he actually whimpers, and he swallows hard, nodding. She bites again, and he gives a whine, not so quiet this time, and he slides a second finger inside her.

She gasps again, a lewd moan that _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Claire Standish just made in his ear, and yet he continues to fuck her with his fingers, while she is kneading him with her hand, and _biting_  his neck, and that other hand is clawing down her spine, and she is just _arching_  into it and--

"John..." Her fingers fiddle with the belt, her thin and ragged breath moving to face him, lips brushing lips. "I want to touch you."

His face twists and he bites his own lip, nodding. The hand in her stills momentarily, his brain not quite there to do so much at once, and yet his free hand comes down to undo his button like he's done a million times, undo his fly, and dig himself out...

Her eyes regard him... And he doesn't seem the light of surprise in those eyes. He gulps again. She's never seen another man doesn't know to be impressed... Why does the thought break him? Why does it make him so /hard/ to see her looking up at him with that pretty face, and those ruined lips, bitten by those pretty teeth, those eyes watching him... And her fingers trail along sensitive skin, and he _moans_ , a ruined wreck for Claire Standish, and if anyone caught them, not only would it be the best suspension of his life, he would go down in _history_  as the man who had the honor of breaking--

"CLAIRE!" She's _squeezing_ , cruel and hard, and most girls don't have the nerve to squeeze that hard, and he yelps, but damn it, it feels _good_ , and he presses into it--

"You like the pain, right?" she asks, but it isn't sweet this time, it's practically a hiss, and she is _cruel_ , squeezing hard, and god _damn_ , she could make him blow right now.

His hand goes back to her hip, clawing, pulling that skirt higher as he tugs her closer, his fingers _slamming_  in and out of her, and those little whimpers, the way she sways over him, the way her lips tease near his but never quite connect with quiet little sounds-- oh, she is _ruined_  and his and--

"I want... I want to know," she whispers against his lips, and he reaches to catch them, but she pulls away. "I want to know what it... What it feels like."

He knows that he should be smart. He should get a condom. He also knows that it feels _so_  much better naked, and she's going to feel so hot and sweet and tight...

"First time is always a disappointment," he answered, voice strained. He should get that condom. It's sitting in his wallet. Fuck, he has a couple of them...

God damn it, Johnny. At least let the girl decide before you decide to be a selfish asshole and fuck up her life.

"You..." He groaned as she _squeezed_  at the head, slippery between her fingers, and _god_  she is so good at this... She is like a goddess, hovering over him, and it's like he is at _her_  mercy... "We..." He gulped. "Condom..."

"I'm on the pill," she whispered, and this time, she let his lips connect, and she swallows his groan, her tongue sliding inside. They dance, bodies grinding on bodies, and fuck it all, he's about to get fucked by _Cherry Claire Standish_  in the middle of fucking lunch, and this is better than all the wet dreams he'd ever had about this girl. Or any girl, for that matter. His hand slides away from her, tugging at her panties, and she sighs, rising over him, a hissing in her teeth. He can't help but reach for a breast, squeezing the plump, soft flesh, as she moves to straddle him. He presses that hand against her, stilling her, and she leans back on her knees. Cursing to himself, he scrambles backward, pulling his pasty white ass out of his pants, his boxers, hoping to god she doesn't see how holey they are, and he pulls off his flannel shirt as well, laying it out behind him. When he looks over his shoulder, she's peeling off her panties, and he licks his lips, _needing_  this.

"I think... I think it'll be better if I'm on top," he says, trying to sound like an authority on the matter. He won't tell anyone that he is usually getting topped by older women. No one needs to know that. He can give back as good as he gets when the time is right, and right now, Claire Standish is going to get it. She smirks, not unlike that mocking smirk she gave him on Saturday, but it has more of an air of camaraderie then of contempt. She twirls, like a fucking ballerina, and lays down, her head resting on _his_  flannel, and god damn it, the sight of this porcelain and pink satin princess on his rags is so surreal, he has to just drink it in for a moment.

Claire Standish. He was about to have Claire Standish. Holy fucking shit.

She does not seem to mind the way his hungry eyes rove over her, nor the way, his hands move over her legs, teasing at that sheer, slick hose, tucking that skirt up into a not-so-stylish belt around her waist, the tuft of red fur between her legs...

"So you _are_  a natural redhead," he says, quite without thinking.

She frowned. "Did you think I wasn't?"

"I wondered." His hands slid to her blouse now, that luxurious satin... So soft and better than the cheap shit, and he wondered if he'd be able to touch a woman in cheap satin ever again. She is a beautiful shade of rose as he presses the shirt up, and she obliges him as he pulls it over her head. Her legs wrap around him as he leans down to kiss her skin, which doesn't _feel_  like porcelain at all but is soft and warm and smooth... His hands squeeze at her breasts, tugging at her flimsy bra, pulling the blossoms out, and her own fingers tease under the collar of the shirt he's wearing, claws finding flesh and _scratching_  into his scalp... He growls softly as his teeth worry those precious pink buds, tasting them, tugging at them, pulling at them. She gives encouraging, lip-biting groans, and his mouth and his hands explore her body. She does the same, her legs squeezing him, hands tugging his own shirt off, and as he towers over her, kicking his pants off his feet, he moves his hips to meet hers.

She lets out another squeak when he presses. Her nails dig into his flesh, and yet he doesn't complain nor does she apologize. Instead, her face twists, caught up in _this_ , and he rocks his hips gently, teasing her, pressing oh so gently further in, and she whines, her hips answering him. They take their time, part of him still oh so very aware that she is probably going to bleed all over the lawn, and he wonders if she knows about that part. But he doesn't ask. Instead, he watches the conversation she is having with her body, the expressions that flash over her face, the way her lips turn _white_  from biting so hard. When she gasps, letting go, they bear a red mark where her teeth dug in so deep, and he rocks his hips into her, plunging a little deeper.

"No no no..." she whispers. "John. It hurts..."

"It always hurts a little the first time," he says, gentler than he's ever been with a woman in his whole life. Her eyes flash open, and in them, there is nothing but _trust_. A little fear, yes, but she gives it to _him_ , and when she stills, her body tense around him, her nails loosen from his flesh, her fingers gentle with their caresses.

He hisses softly. "I swear, Cherry, you're gonna leave me all marked up," he purred.

And then her face split into a brilliant grin. "I'm not a Cherry no more." It's the sweetest, filthiest, yet most innocent confession he's ever heard, but her face changes again with another soft gasp as he is _buried_  deep inside her. A soft moan...

"...Yeah. Guess you're not." He stays there a moment, letting her get used to the girth of him. And then he begins to rock again this time pulling out, and he can feel her closing up behind him, and he _pushes_  in again.

"Oooh..." This time, it's a _coo_ , and he files away that delicious fucking sound for when he is dreaming of her tonight because _hot damn_. He continues, a careful pace until her hips are answering his, wordlessly begging for more. By the time they're both panting, and really, she is going to make him _pop_ , she is a mewling, moaning disaster, reaching for him, hungry kisses with lips and tongues and teeth and she is _clawing_  at his back as he _drives_  into her, sweaty and slick-skinned, indulgent and worshipping this beautiful creature, some lowly peasant ministering to his queen, his princess...

"Fuck, Claire..." he whispers, still not quite believing this is really happening. "You feel... Amazing."

Her face splits into a self-satisfied grin, a cocky and lusty thing that is nothing short of breath-taking.

"You're... Beautiful," he added.

Her eyes darken even more, and her face goes from jubilant to... Something darker. She pulls him close, her hips furious as they urge him on, and he bucks into her, his pace turning cruel and lusty, and when she squeals into his shoulder, holding on to him for dear life, gasping in a high-pitched voice, "Oh god! OH GOD!!! John! JOHN!!!" He buries his face in her shoulder, biting at her skin, as she cries _out_  to him, her body _squeezing_  the life out of him, and the way she _thrashes_  in his arms makes him whimper, makes him whine, undignified sounds that please, dear god, no one should ever hear but _her_ , please...

He doesn't realize the words are coming out of his lips as he joins her, and in a split instant of panick, _pulls out_ , a terrified curse on his lips.

She squeals, this time in surprise, but he buries himself in the dirt, in the grass, because _how fucking dare you_ , John Bender, you are not worthy of...

Whimpering, he clutches her as his own body convulses, and he _spills_  out into the grass, whimpering like a fucking baby, but clinging oh so tight to her, hot and warm and soft and wonderful and...

...When he comes down, he is panting into her breast, and her lovely, perfectly-manicured nails are combing through his hair... He leans up over her, his arms shaking, awe and... Indescribable adoration etched all over his face.

 _Princess_. Everyone will notice when you're not there. Whole damn school couldn't start without you.

You are the world. Without you, everything else would stop.

She reaches for a kiss, and this one doesn't have teeth or tongues or scrambling, but it's something else. Something fervent and pure and needing, and the way her hands are on either side of his face, her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands sliding over her back and scooping her close, it's like she's _surrounding_  him, enveloping him in her warmth and soft and wonderful, and when he groans into her lips, more words come to mind he doesn't have the courage to say.

He hopes she can't hear them through the kiss. If she does, he's done for.

They are eventually quiet. Panting is just... Deep breathing. He wonders if they could sleep here, nose buried in the soft bosom of Claire fucking Standish, except that his ass is in the wind and he's getting goosebumps. He presses soft kisses over her skin, and she giggles, reaching to meet him with a kiss, but he only nuzzles his nose against hers. Her eyes are bright and watchful, following the cue for this as well, even as her nose wrinkles from the silliness.

"...There," he whispers. "Bet your parents will love that."

She bursts into a laugh that shakes her whole body, and her head flips from side to side, hair like summer fire dancing as she does so, that grin so big it just doesn't make sense. "No, they'll fucking _hate_  it," she agreed. Her hands slide over his skin, and his shoulders roll under her touch. There is another kiss, quick but lovely, and he moves away from her. He reaches into his pocket for an old kerchief, but even better finds a napkin, and wipes himself off. She sits up, watching him, still disheveled and... When he looks at her over his shoulder, he can't help the smile tugging at his lips.

She tilts her head to one side, a similar smile on hers. "What?"

He shakes his head, trying to think up a lie. But instead, he says, "...You look a mess."

She scoffed, reaching for something nearby and tossing a shoe at him. It's not enough to do any kind of damage, and he chuckles. "You're an _asshole_."

But he just laughs, leaning back over her, grinning. "Yeah, and yet you let me--"

But she cuts him off, stealing a kiss, a _hungry_  one this time, and there is definitely some tongue. But he does not fight because this devil woman has a hand in his hair and _twists_  it in a fist. He whimpers, obeying, and she is using him for _her_  pleasure instead of the other way around...

..When she parts, he is so sure that he's going to be calling her name in the wrong places, and it's going to get him in trouble. His eyes watch her, dark and reverent, and there's that smirk again.

"What were you saying?" she teased.

He swallowed hard. "You look beautiful?" he tried again.

She chuckled. "That's better." She released her grip and pushed him gently away. He watched her sideways as he pulled on his pants, and she likewise rose (he admired the view from down here) and resituated her own clothing. She stole glances over her own shoulders and made it obvious that she approved of his hungry eyes, and the sway to her hips meant she wanted him to look and enjoy what he saw. When they began to move back to the cafeteria, she reached for his hand, the bell long since called the next bell, and he wondered if they would be found out as he took the offering. He was staring, no doubt, but she did not seem to mind at all.

"So." She gave him a look out of the corner of her eye that he decided was really fucking sexy. "What do truants like you do at a time like this?"

"Depends on what time it is," he answered, readily, his fingers moving to weave in with hers. "Did you go to class today?"

"I did," she said as if this were merely discussing the weather, not her very-important education. "Did you?"

"Walked the halls a bit," he admitted. "Didn't find anything interesting." Her eyes glittered, and he wondered if she got what he was saying.

Judging by the way she bit her lip, he was thinking yes.


End file.
